Our Spring and Fall Maine Canoe Trips

Our paddling adventures in 2024 were so much fun. We canoed over 50 miles along the Allagash Wilderness Waterway in June. I loved the immense wilderness and the simple life during our travels. Later in the fall, we paddled the boundary waters between eastern Maine and Canada along the St Croix River. The river offered fun rapids and great camping over a long weekend. Heading into the winter, I imagined next year being even better. 

Somehow, our group locked our trip into the second weekend of May, 2025. We speculated that winter would be lame. With little snow pack, the rivers would be perfect in early May. We were completely wrong. Maine enjoyed an average snowfall. River levels remained high throughout April, especially with spring rains, and our impending trip date approached. 

My friend and I wrangled over trip ideas. He wanted to paddle Big Black, a remote northern Maine river. However, area roads are closed until at least mid May, otherwise they become rutted with tire tracks and are expensive to repair. A local guide eventually steered us away from this idea. We considered other trips. The St Croix was dangerously high. Another favorite river in eastern Maine was feisty and mostly paddleable, but road access was impossible due to closure. Admirably, I drove an extra two hours one afternoon to confirm. 

I proposed trip ideas that I lusted after for years. The Mattawamkeag River camping options were best for a small group, but not our six-man crew. The paddling would have been epic! I forecasted several versions of this river. None of them made sense. 

I pitched more ideas to our leader. He measured the distances, contemplated the campsites, reviewed the rapids, and shot me down every time. As the intended weekend neared, we reluctantly canceled the trip. Looking back, I had a few ideas we could have paddled. I spent countless hours researching rivers and campsites, as did my friend, and we failed.

Summer meandered and the fall canoe trip approached. After a few discussions and perhaps lack of consensus, we paddled a familiar fall trip, Richardson and Mooselookmeguntic lakes. These two western-Maine lakes combined offer 20,000 acres of water surrounded by mountains and sparsely cottaged shorelines. A fantastic 25-mile paddle covers the length of the two north-south lakes. Two parks manage numerous campsites along these waters, connected by a dam and a portage trail.

We checked in at the South Arm campground office and dropped our gear at the launch. Then, we drove three vehicles to the north end, left two there, and returned to the launch in my modest SUV. At 3pm, we returned to the launch and paddled from Richardson Lake and headed north. A previous night’s storm lingered. Purple clouds cupped the sky, changed shape, and conjured gentle fears of lightning and rain. 

We angled our way northwest out of the cove and then pivoted northeast. I paddled alone in my beloved canoe, while 2 sets of guys paddled tandem, and the last guy sea kayaked. I struggled at times, fighting against the wind, maintaining a steady bearing, and just keeping pace. Alas, I paddled alone for many hours on this trip. My friends continued in the distance, somehow always on a seemingly parallel but unique path. I enjoyed my time. The wind kept me alert, and waves crested and tossed my boat.  

After a few miles of paddling, we arrived with enough daylight to set up tents along the sandy beach. We enjoyed a one-pot meal of pasta, sausage, a cream sauce, tomatoes, onions, and basil. Friends sat around the campfire. The trip had just started. An extra energy erupted amongst the group. Fire danced and splashed light amongst the faces of the fellas, exaggerating characters and moments.  

Reluctantly, I retired to my tent and fell asleep. Throughout the night, loons wailed and pulled me out of my slumber. Their sound echoed across the water and danced between mountains. My tent was seemingly in the middle of everything. I drifted into and out of sleep. The sound of waves woke me and splashed against the nearby shoreline. The magic of loons and waves serenaded and lightly traumatized my sleep. 

We awoke the next day and enjoyed a hearty breakfast. We loaded our gear and continued north along Richardson Lake. We passed through the Narrows, where a fisherman caught a 39-pound, Maine-record lake trout in the 2020. We angled towards a distant northern shoreline. A magnificent beach emerged and we stopped there. The beach looked south, offering a great place to swim from a large sand bank angled sharply into the water. Behind the beach, a peninsula of trees blocked the wind. We exited our boats and unloaded gear to lunch and relax. Guys swam in the refreshing waters multiple times. We enjoyed food and the calm, sunny view south. 

We consulted the map. Our intended campsite was one step further north, into the strong wind. While we could not camp on this current beach, an adjacent site was available. We called the campground and changed reservations. We inspected our new home. A wild, wooden throne and two benches perched around a large, blackened-rock fire pit. Two older picnic tables provided considerable cooking space. Makeshift countertops and wind breaks enhanced the kitchen options with rustic overtures. 

After setting up camp, we wandered north and towards the campsite that we originally planned on visiting. A long, sandy beach, curving along a peninsula, plotted our path. We waded through watery channels amplified by low water levels. Currents twisted the water and sculpted the sand into smooth and angled bends. This other campsite offered impressive views of a nearby mountain. But the boat launch was rocky and campsites were limited as the land sloped sharply higher further from the shore. We headed back to our site. For the impending fire, I carried driftwood for far too long on my back. Darkness enveloped our surroundings. We enjoyed a fine tortellini meal and apple crisp made on the fire. White driftwood burned hot in the fire as I faded. 

During the overnight, coyotes broke my sleep with their calls. How far away were they? In the woods behind our tents? I estimated at least 10 coyotes were howling. I imagined them standing fiercely in the woods, eyes gleaming, and calling to each other. I fell into and out of sleep as they continued yelping. I survived the night and awoke the next morning, remembering last night’s mysteries. 

I prepared my typical two-hour breakfast. I mismanaged food temperatures and cooking times. But we filled our stomachs and lived to paddle another day. I launched my canoe and angled toward the sandy beach. The wind direction changed and waves pressed against my vessel. While admiring their strength, I almost ran into a partially submerged boulder. I narrowly avoided danger, nosed my canoe to shore, and walked it along the peninsula. Sand entered my shoes and tore against my toes. I nosed the boat around the point and enjoyed shelter from the wind. 

My friends joined me and we paddled across the northern expanse. We noted a building in the distance and paddled towards it. Large, rolling waves from the southwest pushed our boats. Waves broke and formed small white curls of water, cut against the dark blue lake. White rocks and boulders salted the distant view. Fall colors sprinkled brightness into this blue world. Low water levels exaggerated the lake’s sandy beaches and rocky peninsulas. 

We finished crossing the northern end of Richardson and carried our gear and canoes to Mooselookmeguntic. A sign along the portage path noted a woman who created the Grey Ghost fly, a flyfisherman’s favorite. We launched into the new lake and followed the western shoreline. We located a site with views of an easterly mountain and a beach looking southwest. The location offered a perfect view of tomorrow’s sunrise and a southerly view for tonight’s sunset. Friends set up their tents, while I lazily chose my hammock that night. Don cooked a great meal of chicken, vegetables, and coconut rice. 

I retired early and awoke as a bright sun slowly emerged from the opposite shore. We made coffee and hurriedly left the campsite by 730am. We angled our boats northeast to the take out. Of course, I paddled alone and in my own direction. The other boats cut further east and then angled north. I canoed my own way and was questioned about it later. 

We finished paddling and exited the lake at 9am. As we packed our gear and vessels, the once calm lake became full of waves and wind from the south. Wisely, we left our campsite early and avoided such nonsense. We enjoyed breakfast at a nearby store, exchanged hugs, and went our separate ways.

My friend brought me back to the launch, where my SUV rested. The campground caretaker visited and exchanged stories with us, as her season ended tomorrow. We promised to visit again. My friend and I parted ways and looked forward to another year of canoe trip planning madness.

Maine St. Croix River Canoe Trip

We arrived at the impressive log cabin on West Grand Lake in eastern Maine. A towering stone chimney rose along the main cabin’s northern wall. A stone-lined path led to a lakeside boathouse and dock. A bunkhouse and a garage with additional sleeping quarters completed the makeup of major buildings. A small outhouse and bathroom dotted the land parcel. Beyond these buildings, 14,000 acres of water shimmered in the twilight.

The owner, Bob, treated our crew to supper and canoeing adventure stories from the old days. He told a tale of paddling 800 miles in Canada. The bugs were so bad that they paddled all day to reduce idle time around the campsite. They wore bug nets when eating or spending time outside their tents. We questioned him about Maine and eastern Canada rivers, as these are more likely in our future. Eventually, the late hour drew us to our respective beds.

The next morning, I read through an old Maine Atlas and Gazetteer in his library. The East Branch of the Mattawamkeag can be paddled almost any time of year? The West Branch of the Union River starts in a pond above Great Pond? The trail to my cabin shows it finishing at a carry-in boat launch? Webster Stream is for “experts only”? I guess my friends and I are canoeing experts. I photographed a few pages from this 1986 publication, as it contained canoe trip knowledge now lost or changed in new editions.

We gathered the troops and headed north to Spednic Lake, which follows the border between eastern Canada and Maine. Along the way, our leader called our vehicle shuttle guy, C&C Canoe. Curtis reported that the lake had huge, challenging waves. We decided to paddle the St. Croix River instead, which empties out of the bottom of Spednic Lake. We’ve paddled the river a handful of times and have always enjoyed it.

Saint Croix Canoe Shuttle

We drove to C&C’s operation. Curtis washed down a canoe as we parked. He owns 75 Old Town canoes, strewn about his property. His life seemed to revolve around renting canoes and shuttling vehicles in the area. I could imagine myself in his shoes, describing water conditions, telling tall tales, and taking people’s money so they could have fun paddling.

We launched near his house and began our adventure on the St. Croix River. Without rain for at least four weeks, the river was harder to navigate than in previous years. Rocks narrowed available channels to run. Submerged boulders caught us off guard and created loud noises as we scraped over them. Routes to run rapids were tougher. Fewer options were available. Sharp rocks broke through the water surface, like shark fins threatening to pierce canoe hulls. Collections of boulders guarded river channels and pools, which we paddled over in past years without notice. Alas, we had to paddle the river in front of us.

Canoeing Rapids, Canoeing Partners

My partner, Sean, sat in the front of the canoe. He weighs less than most others in the group, as do I. Typically, the lightest guy gets placed in the bow (front), which is my normal station. I love being able to paddle from the stern (rear). I thanked him a few times for this opportunity.

As we navigated downstream, I watched his paddle movements to guide my actions in rear of the boat. When he wanted the boat to turn right, I followed his lead and angled the boat in that direction. I never fought his decision to pivot one way or the other, especially in the middle of a rapid. He had the best perspective, being nearest to the obstacle. We worked together, often without speaking, as I could read his plans by watching his paddle.

I considered other canoe partners, who I at times battled with on previous trips. In unfortunate situations, when I paddled in the front and the person in the rear called out paths opposite from my choice, the canoe bashed against rocks. A canoe sideways in a river and perpendicular to the current is a nightmare. Strong waters can fill the vessel with water, fold a canoe in half, and potentially change a trip and people’s lives forever. In more favorable situations, paddlers pivot the canoe off a rock and continue down stream.

On this trip, a few times I was late to respond to Sean’s lead, but I recovered nicely. When I was too slow to run a perfect line behind him, I pivoted the rear of the boat, at the last second, to miss a boulder that would have bumped the canoe’s stern. I loved these moments. They happened a number of times. Any good stern man can do what I did.

Canoe Camping

Upon reaching our campsite each night, we unloaded our gear and searched the woods for our individual tent sites. While I brought my tent, I elected to hang my hammock between two trees. The overnight temperatures seemed warm enough. No rain forecasted. And a full moon was a great friend to intermittently wake up to.

After going through my gear in various dry bags, I searched the forest for firewood. I hauled downed trees back to the fire pit area. While on these trips, I always look for souvenirs, such as an interesting stump or birch bark from a dead tree. On this trip, I found a small log shaped like a bonsai tree.

On our trips, we have group breakfasts and evening meals. Everyone is on their own for lunches. Volunteers chop vegetables, boil water, build a fire, or whatever is needed to help the chef. On this trip, Don prepared tasty chicken, vegetables, and coconut rice for our first supper. I made a breakfast of sautéed vegetables dipped in a pancake batter then pan fried, along with sausage and scrambled eggs. Mike cooked our second dinner, featuring a wrap containing chicken, lettuce, garden tomatoes, and a tzatziki sauce, along with cheese, olives, and crackers for appetizers. We also enjoyed moose steaks one evening. John prepared a “heart attack breakfast”, named for one his hearty meals years ago. This version featured eggs, ham, home fries, english muffins, and orange juice. I suspect if he cooked a truly healthy morning meal, I would call it a heart attack breakfast.

Another Canoe Trip for the Books

We paddled 36 miles in 3 days. We encountered many other paddlers and campers. One late afternoon, we saw a group of 7 canoes pass by our campsite, and they had at least 5 miles before the next available site. I imagined they set up camp after dark. And, sadly, we saw a number of submerged beer cans in the river.

Nonetheless, we had a great time. We loved navigating the small rapids, catching feisty small mouth bass, following waters bisecting the US and Canada, living outside, and sharing stories around the campfire. We have nearly 25 years of paddling spring and fall trips together. I gave each person a hug when we parted ways at the takeout.

Allagash River Canoe Trip

We arrived at an Allagash village hunting lodge after hours of driving from our various New England starting points. The lodge living room featured four bears mounted on the walls. Coyote pelts hung around the windows like curtains. Skulls and antlered beasts grinned eerily from the tall walls. We shared stories until 10:30pm and reluctantly retired to our quarters.

Morning coffee soon turned into loading gear and canoes into the guide’s van and trailer. We dropped our vehicles at the takeout and joined our outfitter. An old Maine guide shared logging and hunting stories with us for the next two hours. Bumpy dirt roads graced our way. We noticed a truck resting far off the road and deep in a ditch, as a result of a story inconceivable to our crew.

A maze of dirt roads twisted through the forest. A few camps lined a nearby lake. The guide described where old logging camps once nestled in places. We saw two moose, three deer, marten, and a fox along our drive.

Eventually we reached a ranger’s station and our launch at Umsaskis. We methodically loaded our gear into our canoes. Paddling alone meant I knew exactly where to place dry bags, coolers, and my storage box, without anyone second guessing me. The guys fished near shore for a while, as I eagerly ambled downstream. I stood up and poled downstream for a while with a long log I cut for the trip. The log was clearly too heavy I and returned to sitting in my lawn chair perched over the canoe seat. I leisurely paddled with my kayak paddle and waited for my friends to catch up.

A bright blue sky stretched in every direction overhead. Low lands guarded the shorelines. Only mountains to our south provided any perspective on elevation. We lunched at a sand bar. I hadn’t eaten much since the previous day, and I continued my modest intake. Moose tracks peppered the shore.

A canoe appeared in the distance. Thinking we had competition for campsites, we packed our gear. I left first and created significant space between me and my friends. I steadily paddled and kept a constant eye on where the river flowed in the distance. I imagined myself a battleship, taking slow and deliberate turns to reach my destination.

A small rapid appeared. I stood up and paddled through the watery channels shaped by submerged rocks. With my feet flat on the canoe’s bottom, I leaned and easily pivoted the canoe around rocks.

I heard a distant roar of water. I paddled closer and exited river right. I checked out the campsite and inspected the rapids from a higher perch. Remains of an old dam and log cribbing shimmered below the water surface. We decided not to camp here but further downstream. I launched and tried to run the rapid standing up. A few submerged logs and boulders made me nervous. I returned to my seat in time to slice through the interesting rapid. I eddied out below next to my friends and watched Sean and Don run choppy waters.

We continued downstream. I meandered with the river. My mind became an empty slate, not plagued by work or other matters. My world focused on reading the river, finding the deepest waters, and avoiding boulders. Navigating the waters and watching the changing shoreline consumed me. The river always found a path to travel downstream, running over and around rocks, and passing any obstacle.

We soon reached our campsite and decided it to be suitable. We chose our spots for tents and gear. Our little village emerged with bright colored tents and dry bags. We gathered firewood, located the outhouse, and enjoyed conversation. Sean cooked tenderloin, mashed potatoes and tasty carrots. We heated water, washed dishes, and settled around the campfire.

After hours of stories, I retired to my hammock set between two trees. The walls folded mostly over me, providing a false sense of security. Later that night, a brief rain pelted my face. I left my bed and found my tent rainfly to cover me. A few hours later, a mysterious bug walked across the entire length of my mouth. Disgusted and without a delay to react, I crunched the beast. Strangely, I wanted to hammock again the next night. We paddled 8.3 miles.

After enjoying coffee and stories from a friend’s rambunctious times during his teens and twenties, I cooked a laborious breakfast covering no less than 2 hours. We reluctantly broke camp at 10:30am and meandered quickly down to the next campsite, Sweeney Brook, an option for last night. Every tent spot was uneven. We chose the better site last night.

We cruised downstream at a modest pace. The waters moved faster. Eventually we passed a bridge we drove over two days ago. The river emptied into Round Pond. Soft, green grassy lands flanked our entrance. A large solemn tree welcomed our boats into the expanding and calm water body. We passed a small cove to our left and reached a beautiful a grassy green field, inviting us for lunch. We settled onto a long wooden table with benches. We enjoyed a wide view of the calm water. Blue sky and sun warmed us. We ate lunch, played hacky sack, and decided it was too early to camp here and call it a day.

We continued and passed an old camp and two other sites before the waters narrowed at the outlet. Interesting and small rapids appeared regularly. The river pulsed and pivoted. I ran most rapids standing up. Somehow I bumped into several submerged boulders. Perhaps I was tired and labored late in the day. Soon, we saw a few canoes with motors cruising upstream after a day of fishing. They stood up in their canoes, steered their motors with long tiller arms, and navigated the rocky waters.

We ambled downstream and found our campsite. We hauled our gear up a steep bank. Our tent village emerged again. John cooked steak tips, brussel sprouts, rice, and a two-layer cake. The frosted dessert was his appreciation of 20+ years of paddling with the guys. I thanked him a few times. He is a good man. We washed dishes and traded stories around the campfire. After solving several world issues, we retired to our beds after a 12-mile day on day 2.

The early crew awoke and made coffee. The remaining men emerged from their tents. I assembled my gear, enjoyed a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, cheese, and salsa in a tortilla. A side of sliced fruit was nice. The crew slowly consolidated their belongings and we launched around 9:30.

I enjoyed the solace of paddling alone. The quiet wilderness and waters were my companion. Mountains brushed with light and dark green swaths curled in the distance. Peaceful, swampy lands lined the river. My perfect moments of tranquility were interspersed by trout jumping completely out of the water.

We stopped for lunch and two canoes passed us. Their presence made us reconsider our plan to stay at Allagash Falls. Perhaps this group had the same idea. We continued downstream and visited a broad grassy site overlooking the river. The spot was great. We unloaded our gear and set up our tents. Guys assembled their flyrods and fished along the rocky shore where a brook joined the river. I explored the woods and found several old stoves and miscellaneous iron artifacts. We paddled 12 miles today. 

We awoke the next morning, enjoyed breakfast and coffee, and eventually launched our canoes and gear. We ambled downstream and reached the Allagash Falls portage. Ahead of us, two groups were in various stages of moving their gear and canoes. I moved all of my supplies ashore and then carried my canoe up a rocky bank and along the portage trail. The aluminum thwart cut into my shoulders as I carried my 80lb canoe. The trail crested a small hill. I walked further and set my canoe down in the bushes. A strong smell of decomposing fish hit me. A dead muskie, likely the odd gift of an inspired fisherman, hung from a tree branch just above my canoe. A few flies fell into my boat. Wonderful.

We moved all of our gear and canoes to the launch. We lunched and enjoyed a moment of rest. The roar of Allagash Falls called to us. We hiked up the trail and checked out the 30-foot drop. Sean and John fished below the falls without luck. I meandered around the rocks worn smooth by years of high water. I returned to my boat, loaded up my gear, and floated downstream. My friends joined me after some time.

We paddled a total of 12 miles before reaching our last tent site. Begrudgingly, we gathered wood for a fire. Everyone was tired from the trip. Water was low in places. No one had to drag their canoes, but the thought crossed our minds. A hearty meal and conversation ensued. We lingered around the campfire. Men moved their chairs closer to the fire. The fire cackled and lit up our faces to some delight and amusement. I retired to my hammock and listened to the crew sort through worldly issues. We paddled 13 miles.

Soon, morning and the inevitable end of the trip emerged. We gathered our gear, one last time. I searched the woods for a stump or interesting birch bark to save as a souvenir. Alas, I found a piece of driftwood and a birch bark column. We launched our boats. The boys fished. I ambled downstream.

A long field emerged in the distance. I remembered leaving our vehicles here five days ago. Quartz rocks glistened and called to me below the water surface. I sadly beached my canoe along the shore. Music hummed as we packed our gear into the vehicles. Days of paddling, camping, talking around the campfire… all slowly dissipated into a normal life of driving trucks and navigating paved roads. Our northern Maine adventure dwindled and disappeared into the doldrums of common life. We lunched at a local restaurant, exchanged a few hugs, followed each other along remote Maine roads, and eventually parted ways, and returned to the real world.

Solo Canoe and Portage Trip

“The Long Labrador Trail” books detail incredible survival experiences in Canada in the early 1900s. They explored old paddle routes and portage trails. Their tales resulted in starvation, death, and success. I devoured these compelling short books in one week.

After reading these adventures, I knew I could paddle a four-hour canoe and portage trip near home in downeast Maine. For years, I admired this seemingly simple loop. I’ve hiked to the launch about 10 times, and I have driven by the takeout for decades. But the waters in between were a mystery. Of course, I studied satellite and topographic maps. A friend floated the stream in an inner tube years ago. I considered myself reasonably informed.

I anxiously speeded between small mountains and pretty ponds to the parking area. I walked a cart and canoe almost a mile downhill towards the launch. Here, the east end of Spring River Lake became Tunk Stream. A sprawling campsite loosely guarded the rocky shoreline from above.

I nervously launched my canoe at the lake’s outlet, not knowing what to expect. I skirted over a log crossing the stream. The waters darted left and right between mossy green banks. I casually navigated these turns. And then sounds of a larger drop stirred me. I pulled over, inspected the rapid, and walked my canoe down through a tough piece. I re-entered the boat and ran the lower drops. The action was tight. My canoe bounced off several rocks in the narrow waterways. But I enjoyed the decision making, steering, and even the blunders.

I finished the rapid and dropped into a pool. My hands shook as I snapped a few photos. Beautiful chanterelle mushrooms perched along the mossy shore.

I ran into at least 4 of these rapids. Each time, I avoided a scary upper section by walking the canoe along the shore. Sometimes, I waded, occasionally chest high. Larger cliffs shrouded the stream, darkened the waters, and heightened the experience.

Eventually, the stream petered out. It widened and pulsed loosely through the wilderness. Wild, remote, and enchanting green lands lay to the north. An east-west road ran bordered to the south, providing an emergency exit if needed. Paddling along the stream seemed like a better option.

After an interesting and rocky rapid, the stream settled. Intermittent traffic stirred in the distance. Civilization, I grumbled. I paddled to the shore and hauled the boat up a steep bank to the road. Then I walked the canoe and cart west to my car. I bravely listened for traffic, dodged their threats, and proudly returned to my car 2.2 miles and an hour later. A dirt road simplified the last mile of the portage.

My only regret, aside from delaying the trip for years, was not having good walking shoes for 3 miles. My water shoes, which famously drain through the soles, also caused my feet to bleed after miles of hiking.

“The Long Labrador Trail” books convinced me that ANY of my canoe-trip imaginations are possible. These “dreams” are admirable achievements at the time… and enjoyable to reflect upon for years to come.

Another spring canoe trip

Every winter, I study maps and guidebooks to figure out new canoe trips for the crew. We typically plan for 2 nights camping, 3 days paddling… a max of 30 miles. I pester Maine guides, paddling colleagues, and scour numerous online resources for information. I create maps and proposals for trips that may never happen. Yet I continue.

After much consideration in early 2023, I emailed an earnest, yet half-baked, idea to the canoe crew. I proposed the alluring Mattawamkeag River trip. I imagined us paddling the middle section of the river, from Haynesville to the Wilderness Campground. My friend Chris figured out the trip ran 40 total miles, which was at least 10 miles too many. The trip was impossible for a crew that breaks camp at 9am.

The Mattawamkeag River perplexed me. Campsites, paddling distances, launches, and takeout possibilities did not fit into a 2-night trip. I could make it work if we had 3 or 4 nights, but people have to work.

I proposed the Baskahegan Stream trip as an alternative. I’ve researched the trip off and on for 11 years. I detailed a launch and takeout point. Chris determined this new trip was also 40 miles, just like the Mattawamkeag. Funny! I moved the takeout 10 miles further upstream and he accepted.

Each adventure involves hundreds of texts and emails. Plus, I like to stir the pot. The anticipation and communication is so much fun and consumes more time than the actual trip, sadly. But we love it. People jockey for position to make plans and decisions. At times, phone calls resolve differences, make amends, and clarify the direction.

After months of online mayhem with the crew, my dad and I met in the real world, namely Danforth. Dad offered to assist with the vehicle shuttle. We enjoyed catching up and admiring the small downtown. A moose spine casually rested in the parking area. Everything was normal.

Soon, the southern New England crew arrived. We exchanged hugs and handshakes, and scoured a local convenience store for worms. Everyone was excited to travel new waters. We called ourselves the “Baskahooligans”. Or at least I did.

One local guy befriended our group and at great length shared encouraging fishing and paddling reports. Later, we parted ways with our new friend and drove south along route 1 and then west onto route 6. We passed the road (heading south) connecting to Pleasant Lake, where a few years ago we launched and paddled into West Grand. Instead, we turned right (north) onto the White Farm Road and parked where a small bridge crossed the Baskahegan Stream.

An interesting set of rapids above the bridge caught Sean’s eye. Alas, we launched below them. In my tandem Blue Hole 17A canoe, we carried 15 pieces of firewood and 4 gallons of water, to my partner’s dismay, plus numerous dry bags and a large cooler. In the other canoe, an Old Town Tripper, Chris and Sean teamed up for the first time in a decade.

The small stream offered some modest action and then petered out into dead water. We snacked at the first site as rain increased. My rain jacket hid at the bottom of a pack, seeming inaccessible. I was cold and wet. We continued downstream for miles. We saw many ducks, Canada geese, turtles, and roughly 30 beaver lodges.

Sean and Chris caught many smallmouth bass and pickerel. They typically fished at the bottom of a small set of rapids. In one spot, they caught fish with every cast. They estimated about 50 fish on the first day and 80 overall.  

The stream opened up into Baskahegan Lake and we angled towards Round Island. At times, I did not paddle and just steered the canoe from the stern. Meanwhile my partner, Mike, paddled his ass off in the bow. I considered the move necessary to steer the boat and maybe rest a bit. My friends later teased me around the campfire about it.

The lake has at least 4 campsites, including another island for camping. Our awesome site offered 2 outhouses and plenty of open space for tents. The dry wood, which my partner lamented about carrying, helped us get a fire going on a wet day. Chris set up his dreamy tarp contraption.

Mike cooked chili. Sean and Chris talked about the afterlife as I retired early. Sean remarked that I would have loved the conversation. We paddled about 11 miles from 11:45am to 4:30pm.

Sean cooked corn pancakes and bacon the next morning. We packed our gear and left around 930am. At the northwest end of the lake, an old dam marked the outlet. Sean and Chris fished here for a while and caught a number of fish. We exited downstream. The stream had a number of small class 1 rapids that required some casual navigation. 

We found the remains of an old camp and water well on river right. I love seeing artifacts of earlier times.

At our second campsite, Sean cooked tenderloin, steaks, mashed potatoes, green beans, and pineapple upside down cake. We enjoyed time around the campfire. As darkness approached, Chris decided to fish. Somehow, he buried a treble hook into his index finger. He ripped out the hook and bandaged the wound.  

The next morning, I cooked my version of the “heart-attack breakfast”, in homage to JT’s meals on past trips. The breakfast featured stir-fried potatoes, bell peppers, garlic, onion, mushrooms, scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon. We assembled our gear into our canoes. We followed the western shoreline to the boat launch, which is a 5-minute walk from where we left our vehicles at the town office. We could have paddled beyond a roped off area of the flowage and shortened the walk. Or parking at the landing might have been an option. 

Overall, the trip was about 28 miles. The rapids were not exciting or challenging, but the area was remote and offered great fishing. The trip cannot be run in the fall, as the water levels will be too low. The trip could be extended downstream to connect with the Mattawamkeag. Cool guys have paddled from the West Grand Lake area north to Pleasant Lake before joining up with the Baskahegan. Regardless, the Baskahegan Stream trip is certainly worth the trip.

Her First Time in Maine

A lady contacted me somewhat unexpectedly to rent my cabin. Typically midweek in June is empty. She drove about 10 hours with her dog. She seemed a bit exasperated by the journey. I know the feeling. 

I showed off the rustic cabin to her. Explained how neighbors were about a mile away, across the water. She asked about bears and moose. I told her about myself meeting a bear on the trail. While I’ve seen 15 moose over the years at the cabin, they are not as common. But they could be more dangerous. Oh, and there might be an animal living underneath the cabin. Maybe a raccoon.

Darkness approached and I explained that I was an hour away if anything should happen. Her companion was a tough-looking dog of 7 years, skinny legs but muscular with a broad chest. The situation seemed under control. If I was her, I would have been in heaven for a few days. 

The next morning, she emailed me and said she left after two hours and stayed in a hotel. She was not ready to spend time alone there. Maybe she would return with a friend. If this was a Maine Guide test for me, I failed. I did not read the situation correctly. The moose and bear stories were a bit much. 

A fair number of guests may leave a day early because of weather or desire to shower. But this woman wins the prize of the shortest stay.

Unexplored Canoe Route to the Ocean

I’ve paddled, fished, and hiked a few sections of Card Mill Stream. These trout friendly waters eventually lead to the ocean. I knew of one bad drop near the finish. But many unexplored areas made me wonder. I studied satellite and USGS maps. I could see open and calm waters. However, one section appeared to be small and thick with trees. Curiosity captured me and I decided to paddle it one Friday.

I arrived boldly at the launch. A small family assembled gear and prepared to fish the stream. I told a kid that I am paddling to the ocean. He shrugged off my remark and started fishing. I excitedly gathered my gear and launched the canoe. The current whisked my canoe downstream. 

The first few drops were navigable. And then waves appeared. I landed ashore and scouted ahead. Large boulders, sharp turns, and narrow channels made this impossible. I held the canoe by hand and walked down the rapid. Another set of unpassable rapids appeared. I waded through waist-deep waters past the obstacle. I paddled a short stretch and found another impasse. These rapids were too narrow and fierce to walk the canoe down the stream.

Sadly, I dragged the canoe through the crowded woods. I squeezed my canoe between trees a few times. I fought my way over a small hill. I reached a solid wall of balsam fir, changed direction, and found a narrow opening back to the stream. 

I walked the canoe down another set of rapids. As I waded, my feet worked their way around submerged boulders. From behind me, a basketball-sized boulder rolled downstream into my legs. I stepped out of its way as it tumbled through. 

A wetsuit top and bottom kept me comfortable. My river shoes drained the water but my feet were cold. Neoprene shoes are on my list.

I passed a few remote camps along the rocky stream’s edge. Upon seeing one, I considered giving up and begging for a ride home. I continued downstream instead. 

While wading down one rapid, the canoe’s bow caught water and started to fill. The canoe could be lost downstream. I fought the boat out of the moving water. Not sure how I did it. I located the scoop and shoveled water out of the canoe while standing in the rapid. With enough water removed, I floated the canoe to shore and emptied the boat.

I waded through many rapids with my canoe. Few sections could be paddled. Large boulders and narrow, rocky drops were impossible. Yet, I had to get downstream to the car.   

The stream finally reached a large calm section. I thankfully relaxed in my canoe and looked back at the last rapid. A series of three huge drops shadowed my view like a small mountain. No canoe could have run it. 

Small beaver dams and short drops separated the calm waters. I enjoyed paddling and following the stream banks. I lined over another rapid into the last stretch of peaceful waters. 

A considerable drop appeared and began the last quarter mile to the ocean. I exited to the right shore, walked the canoe downstream for a bit, crossed a scary deep rapid, and then dragged my canoe up a steep embankment to a road. I shouldered the 60lb canoe and walked a peaceful 10 minutes to my car. 

I considered myself a badass. I survived a crazy adventure. I smirked and wondered if anyone else has paddled Card Mill Stream. I emailed a local Maine Guide contact. Oh yeah, he canoed that one.

Spooked on the Trail

In early September, I plan to climb the highest mountain in Maine for approximately the 25th time. Trip involves 4000 feet in elevation gain, 10 miles, and 10 hours. In anticipation of this event, I have been training on small mountains close to home.

Tunk Mountain is 1150 feet tall, involves 800 feet in elevation gain, and is located 10 minutes from home. My favorite trail at this point is a lesser-used trail that scales the southwest corner of the mountain. Ten years ago, I used to be able to drive my jeep a few miles in before hiking. Now, due to deteriorated road conditions, I park just seconds away from a paved road and begin my walk where the Myrick Pond Road begins. The trip starts as a dirt road that gradually narrows over nearly 2 miles before it becomes a path.

On a Sunday afternoon, following a number of hours working for our small business, I hiked this favorite trail of mine. While I do see trucks on the Myrick Pond Road, I’ve never seen anyone where the road to Tunk splinters away from this main road in the 10 times I’ve been there.

As I walked along a road section, where trees on opposite sides touch together, a parked Toyota RAV4 emerge into my view. I leashed my dog immediately. I assumed they were hikers. As I passed the vehicle, my senses turned defensive. I noticed two people inside. Feeling spooked, I continued a bit briskly until out of their sight.

As my mind returned to the joys of hiking, I noticed a series of ledges running parallel to the trail, about 100 feet away. My dog walked along the bottom of these ledges last weekend. I had to check them out today. I found a short trail that follows the top of these cliffs and offers a somewhat scary place to enjoy views of distant lands. The ledges fall at least 60 feet at a nearly vertical angle. After a moment of admiration and steady feet, I followed the trail quickly down these ledges to normal ground level. I considered continuing on the main trail that goes higher, reaches a modest tableland, and then the peak. Alas, I decided to turn around and head home.

On the way down, I considered the mystery men in the RAV4. I didn’t want to see them again. I left the trail above their vehicle and angled north through the woods towards another road. My dog did not want to go this way. She needed some encouragement.

The land dropped consistently lower, with rocks and small boulders breaking up the hardwood forest. Soon, the land leveled and became a the dry edge of a swamp with waist-high ferns and downed trees. I knew there was a road south and north of me. But, I felt a bit lost. I pressed further and looked for signs of encouragement. Eventually, I found a familiar place, the road I wanted to see, just on the other side of a small swamp. I breathed a sigh of relief and continued my march back to the car.

Halloween Storm 2017 at the Cabin

On a dark October night, I attended a local play at an ocean-side grange hall. I happened to say hello to the previous owners of the cabin. I am estranged at this point, the previous owners and I, after I forgot about a dinner event a few years ago. They felt I humiliated them, and they decided that was enough of me.

The next day, coincidentally, New England received a strong storm approaching hurricane levels. Heavy winds and rains caused much havoc. I drove to work that morning and enjoyed an adventurous drive home due to road closures and chaos. The normal commute is 40 minutes, but it turned into a 4-hour saga. Many large trees snapped in the fierce winds. Nearly every side road I imagined being a successful exit, always turned into a dead end created by downed trees. When people and traffic appeared to reach a melt-down point, a primary road reopened and cars finally started moving.

A few days passed, everything settled, and power returned. I assumed everything was fine. People always worry about those huge trees next to their buildings. Nothing ever happens. I waited until the following weekend to check it out.

While driving to the cabin, I picked up numerous branches along the dirt road and walking trail. At one point, I paused and thought, am I arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic?

As I approached my favorite location on the planet, the building emerged, shrouded in an amorphous blur of green leaves, branches, and trees. My eyes struggled to focus and figure out what I saw seeing.

Prior to this storm, a large hemlock tree perched about 10 feet from the cabin on the shoreline, likely for decades. On Sunday, this tree succumbed to the high winds and fell against the cabin roof, bringing down 15 other smaller trees with it. This main tree, over 30″ in diameter and over 60 feet tall,  fell and stretched from the southeast to northwest corner of the building. The beast extended 30 feet past the end of the building, with the tip about 30 feet off the ground.

Another tree, about 16″ in diameter and which normally stood between the cabin and the shore, snapped off about 7 feet off the ground. It laid parallel to the lake and flat on the ground. Many other trees were strewn about the peninsula, contributing in smaller ways to the storm’s ultimate chaos.

The cabin building appeared to the fine, although smothered by trees and creating psychological dismay at this time. One skylight bounced off the building from the impact. The large hemlock grazed the stove pipe’s flue cap, tipping it like a cowboy’s hat. The tree also pierced the roof structure in 3 places. Only one was large and created a 15″ x 10″ hole in the sheathing.

After surveying the situation, I chainsawed the lower branches of the 60′ hemlock and worked my way up the tree. Eventually I cleared all the small trees pressed against the roof by the large hemlock. I cleared the roof, aside from the big tree laying corner to corner. I schooched my way up higher and chainsawed branches. At one point, I had a running chainsaw and a leg saddling either side of the tree. I shuddered at the 25-foot drop to the ground. It was time to call a professional. I wrapped up my day and headed home. I knew who to call. For a reasonable amount of money, my cool contractor buddy, who can kick anyone’s ass, removed the tree. I imagined he and his crew carried in a ladder and multiple chainsaws. He mentioned having other customers with similar situations resulting from the big storm.

I credit the building’s survival to having support beams inside and near the middle of the building. If these beams were not in place, the cabin would have been crushed. If the tree hit the metal stove pipe straight on, the results might have included the pipe getting pushed through the floor. This storm was a game of inches, and somehow I won.

Alas, I am a lucky man. I dodged the proverbial bullet once again. But I also wondered about seeing the previous cabin owners just prior to the event. Did the meeting present a test of my fortitude and luck? I survived. The cabin survived. Life is perhaps a series of interesting and unconnected coincidences that have nothing to do with each other. Perhaps I desire to derive meaning from nonsense and luck. As a writer an inspector of life, I have to explore these situations and approach the answers.

Webster Stream Canoe Trip

After a winter and spring of debate, my friend Mike decided the group should canoe Webster Stream. I tried to sabotage the trip a few times. I encouraged two of the guys to side with me and aim for the East Branch, a truly remarkable trip to be paddled before we are too old to be adventurers. This misdirection ended badly and without victory. And the week before the trip, I alerted the crew of high waters and threat of snow. If we had paddled that weekend, we would have encountered dangerously high water, but our weekend’s water was perfect.

To start the trip, I drove 2 hours north and visited a childhood friend in Millinocket on Thursday night. We recapped a bunch of stories from when we were kids and more recent years. We could have talked all night and a few consecutive days, reliving the old days. I have known Ed since I was 6 years old.

Sometime after midnight, I remember waking up every hour to see the empty sky pressing its waking energy into my consciousness. A curtainless window framed the outside world, a striking portal to an early sun illuminating space and time. I couldn’t wait to see the guys and go paddling. A lack of sleep and excessive excitement exaggerated the experience.

I gathered most of my things and headed out to meet the crew at their motel. Two trucks with four canoes parked next to each other. I knew this was the gang. I sneaked up on my friend Chris and surprised him. Slowly, the other guys appeared. I hugged most of them. A few of us are on “hand-shaking” terms, but we should be huggers after all these years.

We dropped my vehicle at the last store on the drive to Baxter State Park. I loaded my gear into one truck and we drove towards the park. We should have exited to the Golden Road earlier, but ended up traveling a rough old road that used to be the primary connection from the park to Abol Bridge. My old memories of the area proved faulty. We visited Churchill Dam, but the water was low and not super interesting. We poked about to find the Crib Works but didn’t take the time to find it.

We headed north. We paid our entrance fees and drove to the launch. Our truck, leading the excursion, saw a bear scramble off the road in the distance. Every trip starts with one cool animal sighting. We should have explored the local museum, where logging artifacts are on display. My grandfather rescued many of them from the park, and when they didn’t want them, they ended up here. I believe one of my grandfather’s paintings of log driving is there.

After securing gear into our canoes and determining canoe partners, we set off. We started paddling in Telos Lake (pronounced “tee-loss”). Katahdin, North Brother, and South Brother mountains loomed in the distance. Large patches of snow dotted their mountaintops.

I loved seeing this new perspective of the park, especially after having explored every other vantage point for the past 40 years. This trip ran from west to east across the northern section of the park. Remote trails provide access to this area, but I had never traveled them in my years of exploring Baxter.

After crossing Telos Lake, we portaged around an interesting dam and paddled a short section of stream into Webster Lake, a water body inaccessible to vehicles. We paddled east across this lake and camped on the shore, where Webster Stream started.

We enjoyed a nice meal, campfire, and tent site for the evening. The next morning, a float plane dropped off a fishing guide and client at our campsite. They had a fun day of fishing ahead of them. The guide tried to scare us. He mentioned that world-class canoeists got their asses kicked by the whitewater downstream from our campsite. While he was right to point out turbulent waters downstream, we were an experienced team.

Paddling about 10 miles took us an entire day. Essentially, all of it was whitewater. I have never paddled so many consecutive stretches of rapids on any prior trip. We ran most of the rapids. Most of us portaged around one drop, called Indian Carry, but one tandem boat ran it clean. Whenever an interesting section appeared, we pulled off to shore and scouted the rapids. Partners pointed out boulders to miss, lines to run, and waves to navigate.

For the most part, we ran the rapids quite well. I paddled in a whitewater boat, belonging to my partner John. The boat rode high in the rapids, and glanced lightly off the turbulent waters. Normally, I am used to taking waves while paddling in the bow (front of the vessel). But this Blue Hole boat made me look like an expert.

One group brushed up against a boulder and nearly pinned the boat. My friend just purchased a used Old Town Tripper, and he mentioned the boat groaned with force from the water trying to fold the canoe.

Everyone portaged around Grand Pitch, a narrow, steep, class V drop in the stream. The carry was a bit arduous, but all adventures require suffering.

Below the pitch, we enjoyed a few more drops before the water settled into Grand Lake Matagamon. The magical waters of the East Branch of the Penobscot joined Webster Stream at this point. We exited the stream at 6pm, and I immediately started making a fire as it was my night to cook. Eventually, the coals were ready, and I cooked about 16 chicken thighs. I separated the chicken and heated it along with potatoes, tomatoes, and onions. I served this chicken curry over freshly cooked basmati rice as darkness encroached.

The next morning, we paddled into the expanse of Grand Lake Matagamon. Island after island dotted the still and pristine waters. Sean caught a nice trout here. Horse Mountain and its rocky cliffs rose out of the land to the southwest.

After lunching on an island campsite, John (my partner) and I paddled and met up with the crew. We paddled on our own for much of the day. At the takeout, docks lined either side of the river above the dam. My partner decided to try the eastern one. We found a walkway lined with ropes as hand railings. We walked 10 minutes along this path, even with some gear, until we saw “no trespassing signs” and heard our crew holler from the other shore. We packed up our gear and began the trip south. I parted ways in Millinocket, exchanged a few hugs, and headed home.